


practice my maintenance (as hard as you can)

by notlucy



Series: MCU Kink Bingo - NotLucy [16]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Crying, Dom Steve Rogers, Id Fic, Let's be real honest about that, M/M, Paddling, Safewords, Sex Work, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky's nearly thirty and has never been spanked. For most people, this wouldn't be a pressing concern. Bucky is not most people.





	practice my maintenance (as hard as you can)

There are certain things that are facts.

It is a Tuesday.

It is two o’clock.

Bucky is standing in a small room tucked within a nondescript brick building in a neighborhood he doesn’t often frequent.

The room is part of a series of rooms that line a narrow hallway—each door closed, waiting for someone like him to arrive. Open the door. Step inside.

His heart climbs into his throat as he does just that, looking around and taking in the room. It's not what he expected. The lights are low, but warm, illuminating a space that reminds him of where someone might get a massage. Someplace comforting and safe. A cocoon. Four walls. Two with doors—the one he's just walked through, and one opposite. The wall to his left is covered with a spongy material that has been shaped into hundreds of identical cones.

He steps forward and touches one. Squashes the foam to its smallest self before releasing and watching it spring back.

Soundproofing. Makes sense.

The wall to his right is much the same, save for two things: a black trunk on the floor and a square cut into the foam, where a pegboard is mounted. An incongruous pegboard, looking more as if it should be in someone’s craft room or workshop than here in this place. Except, that is, for the implements hanging from it; Bucky knows the name of every one.

Cane paddle tawse birch belt brush crop strop. Intimidating in their inanimacy.

 

* * *

 

There are certain other things that are facts.

Bucky is thirty.

Bucky is single.

Bucky has never been spanked.

On its surface, this should not be such a shocking fact. Most people haven’t been spanked, nor do they spend much time focused on the absence of spanking in their day-to-day lives. Bucky is not most people.

His parents never raised a hand to him; never even used the threat of physical punishment to keep him in line. Never needed to: he was a good kid. He has always been a good kid. Twelve years of school without one single detention. Decent GPA. Popular. Athletic. Queer. All facts. All things that he knows.

Also, he has a spanking fetish.

Such a small thing, yet a thing that’s become all-consuming.

It started when he was little. He has a weird, early memory of sneaking out to the living room to watch television late one night. He’d flipped through the few cable channels they got and had come across an old movie where a cowboy dragged a woman across his lap and started walloping her backside. Bucky was ten or eleven, maybe, and he can still recall the jolt of electricity that shot through him at the sight of the cowboy’s arm around her waist. The way her legs kicked. The way his hand rose and fell.

He’d rushed back to bed when the scene ended. Masturbated with intent for the first time in his life.

Imagined himself as the woman.

Wondered what it would be like to be held down.

Bared.

Struck.

He'd come thinking about the shocked look on her face and decided he wanted to be her. Wanted to be made vulnerable. To give himself over to someone else's whims.

Why? Hard to say. But isn’t that the point of a fetish?

Still, as fetishes go, Bucky knows that spanking is not very adventurous. It's nearly socially acceptable, but only in specific contexts. Jokingly, self-deprecatingly. Never with any seriousness. To crave it the way Bucky craves it seems wrong, so he has gotten very good at hiding his desires.

That wasn’t always the case. Throughout his adolescence, as the obsession had grown, any and everything he could find on the subject became fodder for his fantasies. Friends whose parents weren’t quite so liberal as Bucky’s folks? He’d press them for details on what happened when they were punished. No doubt they’d thought he was strange. They weren’t wrong.

Old sitcoms and cartoons were prime sources of masturbatory material—Ricky and Lucy, characters in comic books, even Ross and Rachel in one memorable late-season episode of Friends. Those spankings were played for laughs, but for Bucky, they were proof that other people out there thought the way he did. Proof he wasn't alone.

Eventually, there had been the internet. Searches that led him to pictures and, the holy grail, videos of bright red bottoms and teary-eyed faces. His late teens had brought his first foray into experimentation as a solo practitioner—one hand behind himself, hitting as hard as he dared, while the other hand rubbed one out.

College came and with it his first real boyfriend, the two of them fumbling their way through awkward rutting with occasional bursts of pleasure.

It hadn’t been enough for either of them, so that first boyfriend gave way to a second. A third. A fourth.

Bucky had never been able to find the words to ask any of them for what he wanted. Instead, he would guide his partner’s hand lower. Lift it up and let it go as if they might pick up on what he needed without him having to say it.

Some boyfriends had laughed. Others had let their hands hang in the air, missing the point entirely. A select few had given him a couple slaps accompanied by standard dirty talk about how he’d been a _bad_ boy.

Bucky had hated that. He wasn’t bad, he was unfulfilled. There was a difference.

At twenty-seven, he had decided enough was enough. He was going to find people who understood; people who would see him for who he was without judgment or shame. So, he joined a kinky website. Started attending munches and visiting clubs. Through his efforts, he met people—great people!—and watched many of them indulge in the spankings he wouldn’t allow himself. Because those people were different—their wants were allowable and acceptable, while his were wrong. Why were they wrong? Again: couldn’t say, but that didn’t stop the fear from creeping up his spine every time someone looked him up and down or made an offer. What if he disappointed them or embarrassed himself? Couldn’t do it. Said no every time.

The new friends weren’t all for naught, however. It was through one of them that he learned about the existence of certain professionals who specialized in fulfilling fantasies. There was a website, she’d said, if one knew where to look.

The idea appealed. _Paying_ someone to spank him was a wholly different proposition than potentially humiliating himself in front of a friend or acquaintance. He had sat on the knowledge of the website’s existence for nearly six months, turning the idea over in his head. Getting used to it.

Then, he’d turned thirty, the occasion of which necessitated drinking to excess at home while lamenting his singlehood and his eternally un-reddened rear end. At some point in the evening, he’d gotten online.

When he woke the next morning, hungover and bleary-eyed with only a few scant memories of the previous evening, he had discovered a message in his inbox from a man who called himself Steve.

> _Happy birthday. My rate card is attached._

Bucky had frowned at the screen in confusion before using his browser history to find the account he'd made on a particular website and the message he'd sent to this so-called Steve at two in the morning.

> _Hello. Its my thirtiest dbay. I have never done this bfore. Can help?_

Mortified, he'd clicked on Steve's profile. There was a photograph, taken from behind—Steve was shirtless, with broad, muscled shoulders and short blond hair. In place of a biography, there was a list of specialties, at the top of which was corporal punishment.

Bucky had allowed himself precisely two minutes of panic before biting the bullet and looking at Steve’s rate card, which was broken up by increments of time rather than activities. Steve wasn’t exactly in Bucky’s modest budget, but shit, he had some money in savings. He could make it work. Maybe doing this would get the desire out of his system. At least that’s what he’d told himself when writing back.

> _I’m sorry for my earlier message. I think I was enjoying my celebration too much. I’m a much better speller when I’m sober. I’m only interested in spanking, your profile says you do that?_

He’d hit send before he could overthink things. Steve responded later that night.

> _Yes, I do. You said you’d never done this before, so I’ll assume you don’t know what you like. That’s fine—I’ve worked with first-timers in the past. If you want to book a session, please fill out and return the attached form._

The form had been intense. Questions about preferences. History. Previous experience. Safewords and aftercare with detailed descriptions required about specific things he wanted. Bucky had filled it out, questioning his sanity every step of the way, but reminding himself that this wasn’t a commitment. He could turn back at any time.

Knowing that hadn’t made him take the questions any less seriously, marking what he absolutely wanted, saying maybe to most of the rest, and returning the completed survey hours later with a perfunctory note.

> _Looking forward to working with you._

Steve’s reply had been swift.

> _Thank you—very informative. A week from Tuesday at two suits me. Per your request, we'll use a bench, and I'll leave you a blindfold. There'll be someone to greet you and deal with the transactional part of things. Please have your clothes off, blindfold on, and be in position before I arrive—I'd estimate about ten minutes for you to get settled. Also, drink plenty of water, use the bathroom before you come, and eat something substantial._

It had sounded so clinical in the message. Medical, even. As if Bucky would be going in for a quick check-up. Steve would listen to his heart, his lungs, then spank him until he screamed.

But that had been then, and this was now. Standing there in that room, shaking with nerves. Less clinical, more terrifying.

Primarily because of The Bench, which so far only exists in capital letters.

Bucky’s been avoiding looking at it, studying the walls and the floor instead. Allowing it to dominate the periphery of his mind as well as his vision. Finally, though, there is nothing else to do but turn his head and allow his eyes to rove over the padded platforms. It’s big. Intimidating in its construction of rich dark leather and wood, old-fashioned and oddly elegant in its sturdiness. Its permanence.

There are two padded L-shaped leg rests on one end—the short part of the L for shins, the long for his thighs. They’re adjustable, and whoever set up the room has positioned them fairly far apart. Christ, he’ll be vulnerable, spread like that. A shiver runs down his spine at the very idea.

He takes a step closer.

There are armrests bolted on either side. Thickly padded for his comfort, which nearly makes him smile. Wouldn’t want anyone uncomfortable while lying there, oh no.

Then, there is the body of The Bench. He runs a hand over the cushioned board where he’ll rest his torso, tipped at an angle that will put his head below his ass while his hips are supported by a bolster.

“Okay,” he says to soothe himself, voice swallowed by the walls. He continues to touch the leather, crouching low so he can intimately acquaint himself with The Bench.

There are straps. Black leather and buckles for wrists. Thighs. Calves. Bodies. He hadn’t thought much about bondage, assuming that part of the form was perfunctory. An “ask me” when he’d checked the box.

Now, though, seeing the supple leather that could hold him still while he’s on the receiving end of the thing he wants most in this world? He’s not sure. So he closes his eyes. Counts to ten. Reminds himself that this is his choice.

He should probably get undressed.

His fingers shake as he unbuttons his shirt and folds it, placing it on the bench. Next, his shoes, then his socks. Those are followed by his jeans and his boxers before he can think too much about what he's committing to. The room is warm, which he'd noticed when he first walked in but appreciates more once he's naked.

There is a small box by the door where the woman who’d taken his money had told him to put his things. Bucky finds the blindfold there—a flimsy sleep mask, disposable and cheap. He swaps it for his clothing and is left to figure out how best to approach The Bench.

“Okay,” he repeats, self-soothing as he sets his left knee on the padded rest. He pauses to put the mask over his eyes, and though some light filters in through the edges, his breath quickens at the change in sensation.

Clumsily, he arranges himself, anxiety spiking when he moves his right leg to the opposite rest. He hadn’t been wrong about the spread—he is utterly exposed. Deliberately so, with his backside pointed toward the hallway door, cock hanging limp between his legs. Too nervous to think about pleasure.

He wonders if Steve will be offended by that. Maybe he’s supposed to be hard? Sure, he’d specified no sexual contact on the form, but that doesn’t make this less sexual. Shouldn’t he be showing some signs of enjoyment? What if Steve’s cruel about it? What if he teases or taunts him or—no.

Won’t. Bucky had said humiliation was a limit. Steve will stick to that. Because this is a professional operation. Highly recommended.

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, bracing his forearms against the armrests as he settles his torso against the bench, resting his left cheek on the leather, which is soft and smells good—earthy and sweet.

Once positioned, he has nothing to do but wait. Breathe. Contemplate what’s to come. This thing he’s submitting to because he can’t live without it any longer. A puppet of the desire that’s driven him to this: naked in the dark, body on display for a stranger. Someone who’s going to step through the door and hurt him.

Someone he has _paid_ to hurt him.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

There’s a knock at the door.

“Um,” he squeaks, unsure. Is this like the doctor, where he’s supposed to indicate he’s ready, or will Steve just come in because he’s the Dom and Bucky’s the sub?

He gets his answer when the door opens and brings with it a rush of cooler air from the hallway. Bucky flinches at the change in sensation. God, he hopes that’s Steve.

“Sorry about that, it’s cold out there,” the newcomer (Steve, it _has_ to be Steve!) says, shutting the door behind him. His voice is easy. Deep. Unbothered by the sight of Bucky’s hairy thighs and limp dick. “It’s Bucky, yeah? I’m pronouncing that right?”

“Yes,” he says, or tries to say. His voice is gone, so he licks his lips and swallows before trying again. “Yes, sir.”

Steve takes a few steps closer, shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. “Just Steve is fine. I’m not formal.”

“Oh.”

“You’re freaking out, huh?”

It’s not really a question. Bucky nods.

“Lotta people freak out,” Steve says. “Do you mind if I touch you?”

It’s a strange request, all things considered. Bucky nods anyway. Steve takes another step and places a hand on Bucky’s lower back. It’s a big hand. Warm, with calloused fingertips that Bucky notices when Steve starts rubbing a slow circle against his skin.

Steve speaks again. “I know you know, but what’s your safe word?”

“Uh. Winifred.” Bucky had picked it on a whim, deciding that if he’s calling out his mother’s name, things must be going badly.

“Good. That’s your full stop word—you throw that out, we end things like _that_.”

Bucky hears him snap his fingers.

“Everything else,” Steve says. “We’ll use colors.”

“Sure.”

“We don’t know each other yet, and you don’t know what you like.” Steve’s fingers keep up their slow, safe circles on Bucky’s back. It’s nice. Calming. Probably that’s the point. “I’m gonna try a few different implements on you. I’d prefer you be descriptive about what you like and what you don’t, but if you find that you can’t, you can use the colors.”

“Sure,” he says again, his vocabulary shrinking rapidly.

“Once I know you, it’ll be easier. First few times can be tough, and I’ve found this method works best to figure things out while letting you enjoy yourself. And hey—that’s why you’re here, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You stay honest with me, you’ll have fun, I promise. Got it?”

Bucky swallows again, mouth dry. “Yuh-yeah.”

“Perfect. You ready to go?”

Bucky frowns, and the movement of his forehead and cheekbones shift the blindfold enough that he can see Steve's worn, white sneakers. "Are um…are we not already…?"

Steve laughs, his index finger tapping Bucky’s spine. “Not officially, but I’m ready if you are.”

"I'm ready," he says because he likes Steve's shoes. "Or, green, right?"

"Very intuitive, Bucky." Steve's voice is less playful, though still warm. The hand on Bucky's back stops rubbing, and his skin sends up the slightest of warnings, every hair standing on end before Steve's other hand comes to rest on his ass. It's not a slap, but Bucky tenses all the same.

Steve makes a sound that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “You’re okay,” he says, rubbing Bucky’s left cheek, which probably should embarrass him more than it does. “Just mapping the canvas. So to speak.”

That’s a little cheesy. Bucky nearly smiles.

“Never been spanked before, huh?” Steve says, continuing to rub, though now there’s some intent behind it, like he’s trying to get some blood to the surface. Bucky knows about that. He knows lots about all of this, theoretically.

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Steve repeats. “Elaborate on that, please.”

“I uh,” he licks his lips. Flexes his fingers. Tries to form words into sentences. He didn’t put this on the form. Maybe he should have. “I’ve had…I mean, during sex. Sometimes I can get them to hit me, but—”

“Them?”

“Like, boyfriends? Whoever. They’ll uh, slap my ass, or whatever. But it’s not…you know, _real_?”

“Got it,” Steve says, patting Bucky’s skin. “Since you don’t have much experience, I’ll try and tell you what I’m going to do before I do it.”

“I…yeah,” he says. “I know about this stuff, though. I’m pretty um…I’ve done a lot of research.”

"All the same," Steve says, "I'm gonna talk. We're starting with a warm up—some people prefer to start harder, and maybe you will, too. But personally, I don't like to leave a lot of marks, and a warm-up helps with that, plus it gets—"

“Blood to the surface,” Bucky interjects, eager to prove that he knows his stuff. That he’s smart. Hundreds of hours of porn, tons of reading, and time spent watching other couples in the club have to be good for something.

“Yes,” Steve says, voice clipped. “Look, Bucky, I’m not formal, but I’m not a fan of being interrupted.”

Bucky’s cheeks go hot. Fuck. Steve’s gonna think he’s a brat, or a know-it-all, which is the opposite of what he wants out of this. He’s not there to earn a punishment. “I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t think. I’m really sorry.”

Steve slides the hand on Bucky’s back up to his neck, pinching the skin there gently. “Stop,” he says. Bucky closes his mouth. “It’s forgiven.” Just like that, his voice returns to its deep, warm cadence. “Take a deep breath for me, okay? Good boy.”

Bucky’s cock jumps at the praise, just as Steve begins to spank. Light, careful taps, glancing off his skin. Impossible, at first, for Bucky’s brain to make sense of it—the reality of this happening to _him_. That the sound of flesh on flesh is his own flesh, for once.

It doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t even sting. The only word that springs to mind is _warmth_ —Steve has such a big hand, and he uses it efficiently. One spank barely has time to register before he lays down the next. These are nothing like the slaps Bucky’s received in the heat of passion. No grunting or fucking or better things to do. Just Steve’s hand, rising and falling in the small, silent room.

Bucky zones out, eyes closing behind the blindfold until Steve comes to a stop. It’s hard to tell how much time has passed. Two minutes? Twenty?

“How’s that feel?” Steve asks.

“Um. Warm?”

Steve laughs—it's not mocking, though. Just amused, like maybe they're friends, and Bucky said something funny. Bucky wishes he could picture him laughing, but every time he tries to imagine a face, all he can see are those broad shoulders. The head of blonde hair facing away from the camera.

“Warm’s good,” Steve says. “Gonna go a little harder this time, though.”

He doesn't wait for Bucky's acknowledgment before his hand flies, the sharpness of the slap ringing in Bucky's ears for a moment before he feels the sting. _Ouch_ , he decides, as Steve gives him another. And another. And another. The blows aren’t hard, but they’re not nothing, either. After about the twentieth smack, Bucky’s wriggling, his cheeks clenching while his left knee bends, calf kicking at empty air.

Steve doesn’t stop. Gives him another dozen or so before scaling back to those softer, gentler hits from earlier. “How bad?” he asks.

Bucky contemplates the question. It’s hard to say that it _hurts_ because it doesn't. Not really. Uncomfortable, yes, but not in a way he dislikes. "It's…" he huffs out a breath. "I don't know."

“Try a color.”

“Oh, green.”

“That’s why we have those,” Steve says. “For when you don’t have the words.”

“Sure, I—oh, shit,” he yelps, because Steve has started again, only this time, he’s not holding back. It’s painful in an instant as he alternates both speed and intensity. Some smacks have Bucky gasping in pain while others are hardly fingers grazing against his skin.

Steve’s patterns are impossible to predict. Every time Bucky thinks he has the rhythm down, it changes. Sometimes it’s a rat-a-tat, others a brutal tattoo. There are slaps given with a cupped palm, which are loud but don’t hurt that much. Others are blows that glance off the skin, sore but bearable. The worst are the smacks laid with a flat palm, the pain sharp and immediate. After three of them in a row on one spot, Bucky’s hand flies back to cover himself while he gasps out an, “ow!”

“Guess that one hurt,” Steve teases.

“Yeah!”

“Don’t put your hand back unless you want it to get hit.”

Bucky rubs his ass in protest. Steve smacks his fingers.

“Shit,” he yelps, yanking it back. “Sorry!”

“I know,” Steve says. “I know it hurts, and I know you want to make it feel better. But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

The way Steve says it isn’t a lecture, exactly, but he sounds so _disappointed._ The back of Bucky’s neck grows hot, and he shakes his head. Steve is right. He’s here because he needs this. He’s here because he won’t allow himself to have it any other way. Who is he to seek comfort when Steve’s the one doing all the hard work?

“No,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Would it be easier if I restrained your arms?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively simple.

Does Bucky want to be strapped down?

Yes and no.

To say yes is to admit that he will do anything for this—forgo sanity and let a virtual stranger render him helpless and immobile in pursuit of his deepest desires.

To say no leaves him open to a hasty exit. Gives him the ability to sit up. Roll off the table. End the scene in an instant not through a safe word but through his own actions.

“Yes, please,” he whispers, just like he secretly knew he would.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Hang on, sweetheart.”

Something in Bucky loosens at the endearment, breath leaving him in shuddery exhale. He hangs. He waits. Focuses on the warmth he can still feel in the tender spots. The way it seeps into his skin.

Steve crouches and Bucky can almost see him through the narrow gap at the bottom of the blindfold. Sees a sleeve, anyway. An arm.

“You got an ass made for spanking, by the way,” Steve says, one hand resting on Bucky’s arm, touching the skin of his wrist. “That’s a good boy, there you go.”

Bucky feels the strap fall into place and doesn’t feel the need to respond. The leather is softer than he expected. Steve buckles it in place, then checks the fit while continuing to speak.

"I was reading your form before I came in here. Thinking about what I was gonna do with you. At first, I thought maybe you needed punishing. Like you'd done something bad—"

Bucky’s nose wrinkles at the term, and Steve starts to laugh.

“No, you’re not here to be punished,” he agrees, voice traveling with him as he stands. “I figured that out when you started apologizing. You’re someone that wants this because you want it, not because you think you deserve it.”

Bucky shrugs, embarrassed to admit that Steve has him pegged.

Steve crosses to the other side, pausing to lay a hand on Bucky’s head. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Bucky. Getting your needs met. Some people just need it rougher than others, is all. That’s what I’m here for—so you can live your life a little easier.”

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, because that’s just exactly it. “Yes, it’s—” he hesitates.

“Go on,” Steve says, beginning to restrain his other wrist.

“It’s…it’s like needing maintenance.”

“Sure. How are you gonna be happy if you’re not getting yourself taken care of?”

“Dunno,” he mutters, turning his face against the leather so he can scratch the tip of his nose.

Steve kisses his bicep before standing up, which makes Bucky smile. “How do those restraints feel?”

Bucky tests them, and they don’t seem so scary now. They’re Steve’s holds. An extension of Steve’s hands. Steve, who’s taking care of him. Helping him with maintenance. “Good,” he mumbles. “Green.”

“God, you’re so smart, Bucky,” Steve says. “I love that.”

Bucky flushes, this time with pride, hips shifting against the padded bench as his cock makes its presence known. “Thanks,” he says, wondering if Steve’s going to notice. Wondering if he cares.

“Sure. You about ready to start trying some stuff? I figure we can fit three or four things in, depending. Start a checklist.”

Bucky nods and hears Steve move towards the pegboard, then the sound of handles clicking together. An exaggerated sigh followed by a soft, “aha.”

A few seconds later, Bucky feels something cool and smooth against his ass. Steve taps the implement twice, giving Bucky a silent warning before he brings it down four times in brisk succession. Bucky hardly has time to gasp out a breath before it’s over.

Christ, that one _hurts_ —a bite that stays on the surface of his skin for a few seconds before beginning to fade away.

Steve places a hand on his back. “Can you guess what that was?”

Thinking logically is difficult, but Bucky tries. Wood, he’s pretty sure. Something solid, yes, but not very _big_.

“Spoon?”

“Nope. Come on, genius. You got this.”

Bucky doesn’t bother hiding his smile. “Maybe if I felt it again…?”

Steve laughs and shifts his position, laying four more crisp smacks on Bucky’s backside. Bucky pays better attention this time. Tries to glean some clues so he can match what he feels with the implements from the pegboard.

“Oh!” he exclaims with sudden realization. “Hairbrush!”

“Very good boy,” Steve says. “You like it?”

"Yes. I mean, green. It's so nice."

“Yeah?” Steve taps the brush against Bucky’s thigh. “You wanna see if you change your mind after getting better acquainted?”

Bucky hardly hesitates. “Yes.”

“Suit yourself,” Steve says before starting to spank.

Thirty seconds into the barrage and Bucky’s beginning to regret his decision. A minute in and his hands are tugging at the restraints, hips jerking against the bench with every swat. Steve is relentless. An unpredictable machine. Bucky has stopped thinking of the hairbrush as harmless and started feeling sorry for every sad Victorian orphan that ever had to endure it as a punishment. Because _Jesus_ , it hurts. His ass is on fire, and he’s whimpering and moaning in a way that ought to make him feel ashamed, except it’s hard to feel shame when your entire world has narrowed to a single patch of skin. A single point of contact.

Despite all that, he’s fine. He’s handling it. Not just enduring but _enjoying_ it, this strange mix of pain and pleasure. Every time it seems like too much, like he can’t take another hit, Steve corrects course. Slows and softens his assault before working Bucky back to a fever pitch of yowls and pleas.

It’s maddening. Wonderful. Frustrating.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Steve lays down one last smack, but it takes Bucky a few seconds to realize it’s over.

“Ohhhhh _fuck_ ,” he whimpers, sniffling, though the tears in his eyes have yet to spill onto his cheeks.

“Tapping out?”

"No!" he says, panicked until he realizes Steve is teasing.

“No, huh?” Steve gives two more firm smacks—one to each cheek—and Bucky yells, more from surprise than pain. “You wanna keep going with this guy, or try something new?”

“Something new,” Bucky gasps because he wants to try everything on that pegboard. Maybe live the rest of his life on this bench. “Please, please?”

Steve laughs like he’s proud. Bucky squirms at the sound. “Alright, eager beaver.” Steve really is kind of cheesy. “How about something heavier?”

“Yes.”

Steve walks back to the rack and Bucky decides he’s being deliberately loud to taunt him. He doesn’t mind. The anticipation is half the fun.

The new implement is touched to Bucky’s tender skin a few seconds later.

It’s big, covering both cheeks.

Wooden, again, he thinks.

Oh, fuck.

“Paddle?” he chokes out, every fantasy he’s ever had of a benevolent headmaster bending him over a desk flooding through his mind.

"Perfect, Bucky."

“Does…” he hesitates. “Does it have holes?”

“It does.”

Bucky’s cock twitches again. He wants to touch it. Wants _Steve_ to touch it. “Ohhh,” he breathes instead, biting his lip.

“You’re gonna take six hard ones for me. Think you can do that?”

“I can try.”

“Bet you can.”

“I—” he takes a deep breath. “Could I please count them?”

Steve almost sounds fond when he says, “sure, sweetheart.” Bucky doesn’t get the chance to parse out any meaning from that, though, because it’s all he can do to keep breathing when the first blow lands.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the sound of the displaced air. The crack of wood on skin. Then, there is a slow, blooming agony. A deep ache that shakes him down to his bones.

Bucky howls as both knees bend, calves coming up and toes curling.

“Oh,” he gasps when he’s able. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Steve waits for him to find his voice. His breath. To decide he’s green in spite of the pain. To settle and center himself before saying, “one. Thank you, m-may I have another?”

It’s a line he’s imagined himself saying a thousand times. Steve’s more than happy to oblige as he takes a second swing. Being ready doesn’t make it hurt any less. Bucky recovers faster, though, then asks for a third. A fourth. A fifth.

“Jesus,” Steve says, breathless after the fifth stroke. “Bucky—”

Bucky’s swimming in the shallow end of the endorphin pool, he’s pretty sure, lost in his head and smiling through the pain. He’s read about this—the way a person’s body can compensate—but he didn’t really get it before. The way it would feel.  Like a runner’s high, but on a whole other level. “Please?” he manages after a moment.

“Count it first,” Steve prompts.

“Five, please. ’Nother one?”

The sixth comes without a word.

Bucky's body is thrumming with some secret pleasure; some buzzy joy that is overriding the worst of the pain.

This is it. This is bliss.

This is what he’s been craving since before he knew what craving was.

Steve's voice cuts through the clouds. His big hands fall to Bucky's ass, and he rubs the tender skin, slow and careful. "Gorgeous," he murmurs.

“M’green,” Bucky says, worried that maybe they’re done. He’s not ready to be done.

“I know you’re green, sweetheart. You were made for this,” Steve says. Bucky agrees.

Steve's fingers feel so lovely. Massaging. Touching. Bucky still wishes Steve would touch him elsewhere, though. Let those fingers roam.

Stupid. Why had he marked ‘no sexual contact’ on the form?

Hadn’t wanted it then.

Wants it now.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath and moans against the leather, slick with saliva because he guesses he’s been drooling. He can’t find it in himself to be grossed out by that.

“What is it?” Steve asks, and Bucky realizes he’s rutting against the hip rest, aborted little movements that aren’t actually doing much more than causing him greater frustration.

“Wanna…sex,” he complains.

Steve hesitates, and God, his fingers are _right_ there. Inches from Bucky’s hole. A little lube and he’d slip right in. “You said no when you set this up, Bucky. I gotta stick to that.”

“Gonna ‘mend th’form.”

“Not like this, you’re not,” Steve says firmly. “Much as it pains me to deny you. Maybe next time, though.”

Bucky frowns, worry cutting through his bliss. Steve's talking about next time. Does that mean they're done? They can't be done. It feels like no time at all has gone by, and they just _can’t_ be. This wasn’t enough. “We’re done?” he squeaks.

“No,” Steve soothes, resting a hand between his shoulder blades. “Not yet. Still on your time.”

“More, then. Something new.”

Bucky can feel the tension in Steve’s fingers as he strokes them down his spine. “You wanna try a cane?”

Bucky shivers. Swallows. Adjusts his position and pushes his ass out to show how fearless he is. "Yes."

Steve goes back to the pegboard. Bucky reconsiders his choices when he hears something whipping through the air. Steve’s practicing his aim. Bucky is less and less brave.

“Let’s start with this,” Steve says after a minute, tapping the cane against Bucky’s ass. “It’s light.”

Bucky sucks in a breath. Hears a swish.

The world explodes around him.

He thinks maybe he screams. It’s hard to say when all he can hear is the ringing in his ears.

No amount of endorphins can compensate for pain like that. Instinctively, his body jerks upright. He tries to stand, to flee, only his fucking arms can’t _move_ , and it hurts so much, hurts so _much_.

“Whoa, Bucky,” he hears, and then Steve is there. One hand on his stomach, the other on his ass. Easing the burn. Talking to him, though Bucky can’t quite make out what he’s saying.

“Red,” Bucky gasps. “Cane’s a red. No. No, I don’t…”

“Oh Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve soothes. “I know, I’m so sorry. I know that hurt, pal. You’re such a good boy, though. You took that so well…c’mon, lie down for me. Let me make sure you’re okay.”

As he speaks, he’s already settling Bucky back on the bench. Lifting his legs, one at a time, and laying them on the padded rests.

Bucky never once considers saying Winifred.

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers, once he’s back in position. “Sorry, that was—”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Steve says, his big hands continuing to rub comfort into Bucky’s marred skin. “Now we know you don’t like canes.”

“Definitely don’t like canes.”

“You want to be done? I know you said red was just for the cane, but—”

Does he want to be done? Maybe he should be; maybe common sense would dictate that. But he’s not done. Not yet. Not with time left on the clock and Steve’s hands on his body.

“No,” he replies, tongue heavy in his mouth. “More…still need maintained.”

Steve laughs, this one a low rumble. “Alright, then. But slowly. Back to basics.”

Basic is good, Bucky decides, when Steve starts with those soft, warm-up slaps all over again. It hurts more, this time around. Probably he has welts now. Maybe bruises. A lingering weal from the cane’s bite, even. Steve’s hand hits them all, reminding Bucky of the ways he’s suffered, and how he’s endured.

He's almost proud of himself, and after a while, that warm, fuzzy feeling washes over him again.

“I think,” Steve says, voice warming Bucky as much as any spank. “I’d like to finish up with one of my favorites.”

“Yeah-huh,” Bucky agrees, though he’d probably say yes to just about anything, so long as Steve stays close.

“Hold tight.” Steve steps away, and this time he goes to the trunk. Bucky hears it open, hears Steve pull something out before returning to his side.

“Whazzit?” Bucky asks.

“Something I made,” Steve says, placing the implement beneath Bucky’s hand so he can feel.

Bucky inspects the object with his fingertips. Short, curved handle. Smooth wood on one side, leather on the other. Oval. Bigger than a palm, but not by much.

“Another paddle,” he says.

“Genius.”

“You made it?”

“Yup,” he says, tugging the paddle free and getting to work.

There’s a steady rhythm to the spanks this time, strikes covering an area that ranges from the meat of his ass to the middle of his thighs. It hurts, yes, but it’s less pain from individual strokes and more a wave of constant heat prickling his skin.

He is sore.

He is tired.

His body aches all over.

He thinks probably he has never been happier.

He starts to sob.

There is nothing dainty or delicate about it—this is a catharsis. A snot-nosed, snuffling, messy catharsis, with tears leaking from beneath the blindfold as he slumps bonelessly against the bench. The world falls away: there is only him, and Steve, and the paddle.

He hardly notices when the spanking stops, and he’s only dimly aware of Steve moving. Placing the paddle atop the chest before crouching to undo Bucky’s bindings.

“…there you go, Bucky,” he hears through the fog. There’s a hand on his back and one on his shoulder, helping him to lean up even as his back cracks in protest. “One foot on the floor, then the other, that’s a good boy. You got it.”

Bucky is shaking. Teeth chattering as Steve helps him on a slow, shuffling walk to the door in the back of the room. They stop only so Steve can open it, and Bucky's pain-addled brain thinks it would be best if this were his life from now on. Moving when Steve moves. Stopping when Steve stops. Anything Steve wants.

“Wh-where—” he asks once they take a step forward into the second room, which is better lit, if the light filtering through the gaps in his blindfold is any indication.

“Someplace you can recover,” is all Steve says. “Hold on, just one second.”

Bucky nods. Holds until something warm is draped around his shoulders. Blanket. Aftercare. This is important. He thought it was kind of stupid before, but in living it, he understands.

Because he is not himself, or maybe he is the rawest version of himself. He can’t stop crying. Can’t think straight. This is the place he was afraid to go with a lover or a friend; the truest place. The place he’s had to pay this man—this stranger—to take him to. Steve has been so good to him, despite his weaknesses and shortcomings. But that’s Steve’s job, isn’t it? To take care of people like Bucky.

Probably Bucky’s the worst, though. The saddest sack. Probably the other people don’t—

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice cutting through the clutter. Bucky startles, losing the vicious thoughts as Steve leads him further into the room.

Steve sits down on something before guiding Bucky onto his lap. A couch, Bucky realizes, as Steve settles him with his feet on a cushion so he can lean against that broad chest.

Bucky wasn’t expecting Steve to be so _big_. To be able to wrap him up and hug him tight, which is just what he needs. Someone to gather him close. Rock him back and forth, murmuring that it’s okay if he keeps crying, because he was so good, and so brave, and he took so much.

So, Bucky cries. Sobs until there is nothing left in him but hiccups and huffs, his face a mess of snot and saliva. It helps, though. The tears start to clear the fuzz in his head, and he comes back to himself, bit by bit. At first, he is only aware of Steve’s smell—clean and soapy and a little bit musky, like he’s just worked out.

Which, Bucky supposes, he has.

Steve’s clothes are soft against Bucky’s abused skin, and though his ass is screaming at the indignity of sitting on anything, Steve’s lap is a solid choice, with his soft cotton pants and his fuzzy sweatshirt.

There's something else, too. Steve's hard. Bucky can feel his length pressed against the tender backs of his reddened thighs. He's not sure what that means, but it goes a long way to reassure him that Steve doesn't hate him. Doesn't hate what they just did.

Emboldened by that understanding, Bucky reaches up to remove the blindfold. Steve’s right there, though, covering his eyes with one of those calloused hands.

“It’s bright in here,” he cautions. “Take it slow.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says—the first thing he’s said in ages, voice cracked and barely there.

“Just give it a second.”

Bucky does as he’s told; waits until he thinks he can open his eyes without wincing before pushing Steve’s hand away.

He looks at Steve and sees someone who is so much better than what he’s been picturing in his head. Wonderfully human, with features that shouldn’t work together, but do all the same. His nose is too long, squashed in the middle like maybe he’s had it broken once or twice. His eyes are small and don’t match his mouth, crinkling up his forehead while he smiles a big, friendly smile. It’s a good face. An intelligent face.

Bucky takes an instant liking to it. Reaches up and touches Steve’s whiskered cheek.

“You have a beard.”

“I do,” Steve says, his smile widening. “Hi there.”

“Hi.”

“Look at those eyes,” he teases, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s temple. “Did somebody make you cry?”

“Yeah. You.” He can’t be bothered to locate his wit.

“That was me, wasn’t it?” Steve says like he’s shocked, and for the third time that afternoon Bucky thinks he’s kind of a cheeseball. “How you feeling?”

“M’okay?” He shifts, hissing as the welts remind him of their presence. “Jesus.”

“You took a lot, first timer,” Steve says, expression melting into one of genuine concern. God, he’s younger than Bucky had thought at first glance. Late twenties, most likely, meaning Bucky has a few years on him.

“Did I?”

“More than most. I want to take a look, actually. Hop up.”

He says it like he’s not expecting to be questioned, but with the reveal of their faces, Bucky’s feeling a little bashful about the whole thing. “Ah, that’s alright. I’m good.”

"Oh, it's not optional," Steve chirps.

“But—

“Not to be indelicate, pal, but you got no secrets here.”

Bucky concedes the point in spite of his embarrassment, allowing Steve to help him to his feet and taking in the room as he stands. This one is smaller, holding only the couch they’re sitting on, a small sink with a cabinet above, and a bar cart that’s piled high with snack food.

Bucky’s mouth starts watering. Christ, he’s _starving_.

Steve notices because Bucky thinks maybe Steve notices everything.

“Get whatever you want,” he says. Bucky doesn’t hesitate, and while he’s picking out a granola bar, Steve leans over to open a side table drawer and pull out a small, white tub.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks when he turns around, Kind bar in hand.

"Thought you were the expert." Steve pats his lap. "Come lie down, and I'll show you."

“Like… _face_ down?”

“Unless you feel like holding your feet.”

Bucky’s face reddens nearly as much as his ass at the mental image. Steve doesn’t gloat, just helps him get settled across his lap, arranging things so Bucky has a pillow under his head and his hips and thighs are perpendicular to Steve’s own.

Steve still has an erection, Bucky’s pleased to note, although he seems content to ignore that fact. Which makes sense—Steve’s a professional. He’s used to this. Bucky needs to remember that.

The cream in the jar is some sort of cooling salve, and it feels like angels have descended to give Bucky a heavenly reprieve the moment Steve begins rubbing it into his reddened skin,

“Ohhhh…” he moans.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve laughs. “It’s called uh…Whipped Cream. Stupid, right?”

“Uh huh. Stupid.”

“Name aside, it does the trick. Especially on welts. You don’t have a lot this time, but next time we’ll try a crop. I think you’ll like that.”

"Next time," Bucky says with a frown, thinking of just how much of his savings he's drained to afford this single session. Yeah, he has a good job, and he does okay money-wise, but not regular spankings with a ProDom okay. “I uh…yeah, about that…”

“If you’d rather work with someone else, that’s fine,” Steve says, voice aggressively pleasant. “I’m not gonna get my feelings hurt.”

(It is a profoundly weird experience, Bucky thinks, to be talking business while having cream rubbed into one’s ass by the man whom one has paid to redden it in the first place.

Life is a fucking trip.)

"It's not that," he says quickly. "I loved…I mean, um, I'd…if it was anyone, it'd be you. But I'm not…uh, you're uh…not cheap?"

“Ah,” Steve says, softening. “Got it.”

“I do want to come back, though. I just, um, it might be a while?”

“Sure.” Steve continues to rub, massaging the cream into an especially tender area at the top of Bucky’s left thigh. “I’m glad to hear you liked it. And…” he hesitates. “You shouldn’t be afraid of asking for what you want from a partner. People are more understanding than you think.”

Bucky feels some of the old, familiar tension creep up his spine and shakes his head. “I think um…I’ll probably just save up. For this. I’m not with anyone right now anyway, and…” he shrugs. “This is better.”

“Whatever works,” Steve says, screwing the lid back on the jar before giving Bucky’s ass the lightest of pats. “Go ahead and get up—you’re done.”

Bucky does, clambering off Steve’s lap and wincing he settles on the couch next to him. Now that the buzzy glow of adrenaline and excitement has faded, he’s just sore, and he can already tell he’s going to be utilizing his standing desk at work the next day.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shifting to try and find a comfortable position.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Steve teases. “You feel okay, though?”

Bucky knows why he’s asking—like Steve’s a bartender, and he needs to make sure Bucky can drive home. “Like, can I take care of myself?”

“Basically that, yeah.”

“I think…” he bites his lip, checking in. “Yeah. I mean, I’m a little woo-woo.” He flaps his hand around his head. “But I’m like...it’s cool, I’m fine?”

“Great,” Steve says. “I’m gonna head out, then, let you get dressed.”

“Oh, sure.” Strange, how formal it is now, considering what they’ve just done. He wonders if should shake Steve’s hand, but decides that’s ridiculous, so he hugs him instead.

Steve is the one who breaks the embrace, getting to his feet and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. “Bye, sweetheart. Hope I see you again.”

“Bye,” Bucky echoes, managing a “thank you” before Steve’s gone, long legs carrying him back into the other room and then the hallway beyond.

Once the door shuts behind him, Bucky expects to feel some sort of guilt or remorse. Expects to feel worse than he does about what he's done. Instead, he feels…good. Normal. Happy, even. He's gotten what he needs, from someone who likes him in spite of his proclivities. Sure, he was paying Steve to like him, but he'd still gotten hard. That was a boon to his confidence if nothing else.

And so what if he probably can’t afford another session with Steve until his next birthday? He’ll have this memory to call on whenever he wants.

Before getting dressed, he washes his face in the sink and folds the blanket, leaving it on the couch after sniffing it one last time to get a whiff of Steve’s scent like the weirdo he is.

He dresses quickly, running his hand over the bench and smiling, then stepping into the silent, empty hallway. There’s no sound coming from anywhere, no other customers in the small entry area where he’d paid upon arrival. Even the woman who took his money is gone. It would be easy to believe none of it had ever happened, save for the fact that his ass is very, very sore.

Bucky leaves the building and steps onto the sidewalk outside, only to hear someone call his name. Turning, he finds Steve, jogging the short distance between them, a sheepish smile on his handsome face. He’s even better looking in daylight—taller than Bucky, his golden hair gleaming in the sun.

Bucky offers a tentative smile when he approaches. “Sorry, did I leave something behind?”

“What?” Steve frowns. “Oh! No! I just uh…” he rubs the back of his neck. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Um…sure. Go ahead.”

“You said you couldn’t afford it. Me.”

“That’s…true,” Bucky agrees, not sure where Steve’s going with this.

“But I actually uh, well, I told you that I made the pad—err…last thing we used?”

Bucky hides a smile as two power walkers pass them on the sidewalk, oblivious to Steve’s near slip. “Yes.”

“That’s, well, I do woodworking, as a hobby. And I’m starting to sell some of what I make.”

“Uh…huh.”

“I need someone to help me out,” he says. “Test the equipment, make sure I’m describing the experience accurately.”

Bucky’s eyebrows creep towards his forehead, and he suppresses a smile. “That…oh. Sure.”

“ _Strictly_ business,” Steve says. “Quid pro quo—you gotta be thorough, and I’m gonna expect a lot of hard work.”

Ah, the hell with it. Bucky allows himself a grin. “I got a pretty solid work ethic. You want to check references?”

Steve makes an exaggerated ‘hmmm’ face, which Bucky finds cuter than he should. “I guess I can take you at your word. But ah—there is one thing. If you’re up for it.”

“What’s that?”

“You might wanna amend the sexual contact response. If you want.”

Bucky’s heart leaps, along with another part of his anatomy. “I—obviously, yes. Makes sense. For business reasons.”

“Strictly business,” Steve repeats, faking a serious expression. “Cause, yanno. Y’can make all sorts of stuff outta wood.”

 

* * *

 

There are certain additional, wonderful, brand-new things that are facts:

Bucky hates canes.

Bucky loves paddles.

Bucky hates birches.

Bucky loves brushes.

Bucky loves Steve.

Steve loves Bucky.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This one fills the "Spanking Bench" O3 square on my Kink Bingo card, and was birthed in a single evening of writing every iddy thought my terrible brain told me to write. I hope it scratched someone else's itch, and that you enjoyed. The title comes from a lyric by the inimitable [Barbara Mandrell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMykg_s3Boc). Thank you to [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com) for her beta work, and I apologize for shoving nearly 8k of smut at you at the last minute. 
> 
> Is there more in this universe? Who knows. I am a sucker for sex worker Steve. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


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